After the war
by fic-sean
Summary: Harry contemplates his life, The scarifices he made and what he now has


Harry sat at the Wealeys old wooden Kitchen table, in an equally old and equally wooden chair nearest to the fire with a large mug in front of him. The table spread the reach of the homely kitchen, placed evenly in front of the fireplace so that the whole family could feel its warmth. Harry was sitting roughly in the middle of the it with five empty places to his left and to his right. No fire had been lit. Harry swirled the last mouthfuls of tea around the bottom of his battered yellow mug, a hand-painted 'Ron' had been doloped on the side in loopy maroon paint. Cupping the name more than the mug, he looked into it. Past the beige debris of weak black tea, he watched the tealeaves swim blindly into each other as the liquid rolled inside dark glazed walls. 'Four in the morning', Harry registered instinctively without looking at the clock. He rarely slept anymore and time had become an inconsequential barrier; a liquid which he had slipped through only to see its solidarity from the inside of the cadge. For the living, time is a gage to which they note out the progress of their day. For Harry, the prise he paid for ignoring his life was to sit forever waiting for the stone to fade to sand. Useless as the world passed by. The old wood of the table, inert in death but alive in material left to endure it's life, There to sit at, there to serve, there to paste and stick at, there to chop at, there to sit at four in the mourning drinking tea, savouring the taste as he drank away the leaves of his future, that dry and dead he could now only remember. As he continued to roll his mug he washed around the groups of brownish clots forming and destroying, again and again the shape of a face. 'four thirty' He predicted; and still awake, Thinking back the reasons, the memories of the end, the battle, the war. It had been long years since the Great War, and Harry had faced Voldemort, He had defeated evil and brought Voldemort to his knees for the world to live. After years of struggle it had ended, after everything he had been born to do had been completed. At Eighteen. Harry stopped and the wood turned to stone. The world had a victor, muggles and wizard of the world had a Hero, Hailed and airbrushed into a timeless, universal image that would never erode. But he will not write the books, and who that will see the posters and buy the cheap plastic models that would know 'him', who would hear the recorded laugh of the 'magic-seeker-Harry' and know weather it was him or the fat kid that played him in 'He who spoke his name: You know who' the long awaited sequel to 'Tom Riddle: we can say his name. Who was left that did know him? What had he gained? He wondered: Nothing but Death. He quickly tried to suppress this thought -he had won it for the world, not himself. But his mind still swam with how he used to be. He was never selfless. Single minded but never selfless. Guilt, embarrassment and grief squeezed into his mind, ricocheting against the words he'd lost and what he could not say. He put down his cup, and slowly raised himself from the table to put the kettle on.  
  
"Chain drinker" said someone behind him. Harry spun around, suddenly alive at the sound of the voice he hadn't heard in three years. The empty kitchen smirked back at him. There was no-one there. "Ron?" Harry whispered. Harry sighed and stood watching the vacant space until the kettle called him back to reality. The steamy rendition of the Wyrd sisters 'boil boil boil' peered out. He had lost everything he thought as he stirred in a spoonful of sugar. He shuddered. Then added another spoon of sugar. Death didn't even seem real anymore. He added another sugar. It was odd, and automatic, with so many people lost he couldn't feel anymore. Another spoonful of sugar. Sorrow so overwhelming that he had died himself, he was now but a mechanical husk for whom he had lost. Another sugar. Living for the dead. Another sugar. Grief was meaningless, there was never the relief it promised. Another sugar. Grief was now only a word; it was the tearing loss and burning pain that that absorbed him now. Another sugar. He never wished to be dead but he did wish that he had died instead. Another sugar. All that was important in his life lost and all that mattered was just living, just getting to death. A little milk. And again he sunk into the liquid of time and misery.  
  
He sat down again at the table. "But that wasn't all" he said to himself hoping for an answer. Voldemort was part of me too. "I am dead", he stated quietly to himself. "I am dead" he raged through gritted teeth. Know one but Harry knew. Know one. Know one knew how intwined Harry was with Voldemort in life. When gave Harry his scar he gave him life, half of all his powers were taken and replaced. Harry, Half good, half evil had killed himself, And now in life he now lived in death  
  
"Glad to see your feeling better" A voice came from the next room. He must have shouted Harry thought guiltily, "Oh I'm sorry, did I wake you? Let me help you!" and he jumped up, to run to door just as his partner came through. "I'm ok Harry" said Draco "...really" he added and wheeled himself towards the table. "I Know, I just..I... with the wheelchair and..." "I know" Comforted Draco. "But you're the real cripple here" He smiled attempting to bypass his own troubles "You haven't been sleeping again, I woke up all cold. No Harry, I even had to dress myself!" Harry allowed himself a laugh "You want a cup of tea?" he asked, turning away to hide his tears. Perhaps he hadn't lost everything, Perhaps he had gained it. 


End file.
